


Aftertaste

by bending_sickle



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Creampie, F/M, Felching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bending_sickle/pseuds/bending_sickle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin takes Thorin to a brothel, but he has an ulterior motive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftertaste

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by heartofstanding.

Thorin takes some convincing. He throws the old excuses at Dwalin - he hasn’t the time or the money to spend - but quiets when Dwalin gruffly informs him that Egil’s taken Thorin’s shift at the anvil, and that Dwalin can spend his coin any damned way he pleases. This last earns him a glare, but Thorin does not fight him. “I’m not in the mood,” is all Thorin says.

“Then you spend an hour asleep in a woman’s arms,” Dwalin answers, throwing an arm over Thorin’s shoulders and leading him to the brothel. “There are worse fates.”

The whore is pretty enough: dark of hair and short of stature, just as Dwalin asked, though her body is too like a squirrel ready for winter - all tits and belly - to complete the illusion. They are in a town of Men, after all. (He has no idea what Thorin would have wanted. Years ago, they would share their likes, say what made them hard as rocks, but Thorin’s soured too much for that now. As long as she has hair between her legs, they’ll make do.)

She waits with an open palm until Dwalin pays her. Thorin watches the first few coins stack in her hand, his lips pressed tight together as he counts, then turns his back to it all. Dwalin pays the whore for two, then adds a few coins for her silence.

“Now then,” says the woman, voice and smile gone honey-sweet as she coaxes Thorin back around, “let’s get you comfortable, shall we?”

Thorin grumbles something and, to her credit, the whore’s smile doesn’t falter. He does not shy from her embrace, however, and lets her guide him down the hall to a small bedroom. Dwalin waits until the door is shut before following and pressing an ear against the wood.

The whore - “Ida, sweetheart, that’s my name.” - is patient, easing Thorin out of his clothes and into her bed with gentle words of encouragement. Eventually Thorin’s uncooperative grunts lose their edge, and he begins to talk. Dwalin smiles to himself as Thorin asks the whore all manner of things - hollow, distracting pub talk - until Ida shuts him up with her mouth.

Dwalin presses his ear harder against the door and unbuckles his belt. He catches a groan here and there, the creak of the bed, the woman’s murmured encouragement, and wraps his hand around his cock. He tries to picture Thorin - naked, flushed, and glistening, as when he is working at the smithy’s - crouched over the whore. He imagines his arms tensing over her, broad shoulders like chiseled stone, and his braids swinging as he thrusts. 

He tightens his grip and drags his fist along his shaft, squeezing tight at the head. He can hear Thorin - tight grunts, short-lived groans, the odd sharp slap of flesh on flesh - and feels a fist clutch at his belly. He thrusts faster into his hand, precome slicking his grip. Thorin moans and Dwalin rakes his nails along his sack. Thorin gasps and Dwalin pushes the head of his cock between his fingers. 

Thorin comes, and Dwalin closes his eyes, squeezing the base of his cock tight. No. Not now. Not yet. Wait.

His blood is pounding in his ears and sweat has broken out on his forehead, his moustache. Dwalin presses his cock down, tucks it away in his trousers, shuddering at the pressure. Swiftly, he walks down the hall, away from the room, and stands by a window. His hands are clasped tight behind his back as he wills his blood to cool, his breath to steady. His eyes rest on the outside world, unseeing, as in his mind, images of Thorin - naked, aroused, coming, spent - flash through. He does not know how long he stands there, mesmerised by his imagination, when Thorin steps into the foyer.

“Let’s go.” Thorin’s voice is gruff, almost angry.

Dwalin turns - a deep breath trapped beneath his ribs - and sees Thorin fidgeting with his belt, staring at the ground.

“I’ll stay a bit,” Dwalin says. “I’ve still some coin.” He shrugs and tries to invoke an air of boredom.

Thorin’s eyes flicker towards him then back to the ground. His hands are still on his belt, and Dwalin’s chest tightens. “Do as you will.” Thorin tugs at his coat and clears his throat. “I’ll be at the pub.” Without another word, or a look back, he leaves, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Dwalin watches him leave, feeling the ache in his groin grow, then turns and retraces his footsteps back to the whore’s room. He does not bother knocking.

The woman - Ida, he remembers, her name coming to him wrapped in Thorin’s voice - is lying on the bed just as Thorin left her. Her hands are beside her face on either side of the pillow, deep indents in the cheap stuffing where Thorin pinned her down. Her hair is tousled, strands shifting from her cheek and neck as she turns her face towards the door.

“I haven’t moved, like you said.”

Dwalin eyes her spread legs, thighs wide and knees hitched, and grunts. “Paid you for it, didn’t I?”

Ida snorts softly and turns her gaze towards the ceiling. “Hurry up, then,” she says, but not unkindly. “I’m getting cold.”

Dwalin undresses quickly, tossing his trousers and shirt over the back of a chair, his boots kicked off and landing somewhere under the bed. He stands naked at the foot of the bed, eyeing the glistening skin between Ida’s legs. All evidence of his earlier hardness is gone.

Slowly, Dwalin crawls onto the bed and between her legs. He thinks he can still feel the heat of Thorin’s body, smell his sweat. He nestles where his king lay, his brother-in-arms, and parts the whore’s thighs wider, exposing her. The hair between her legs is dark and thick, the lips between still swollen and a brilliant scarlet. But that’s not what he’s looking for.

Ida breathes deep and arches under his touch, and a white pearl trickles out of her depths.

There.

That is what he wants.

Dwalin dips his mouth down until the heat of her mound almost burns his cheeks. Then, carefully, as if licking mountain dew off a flower, he takes the small drop of Thorin’s seed into his mouth. Ida makes an appropriate sound, but Dwalin ignores her. He rolls his tongue in his mouth, savours this first taste, memorising every nuance. This is better than any lager, any mead, any fancy mulled wine, and it goes straight to his cock.

With a moan, Dwalin buries his face between the whore’s legs, tongue hunting for more of Thorin, probing and sucking, drowning himself in the taste and smell of someone he will never have. Not like this. Thorin will not have him - Thorin will not have anyone - so Dwalin must content himself with this brief aftertaste of what never was.

The woman bucks and cries beneath his mouth, and eventually Dwalin licks her clean, and the only taste left on his tongue is that of her own juices. She is slick and empty and Dwalin growls in frustration. A sip, a sip and nothing more, that is what he got.

One last swipe of his tongue and Dwalin crawls over Ida’s body, wrapping his hands about her wrists the way Thorin did, and burying his cock where Thorin’s was. He can almost feel Thorin’s hands under his own, can still remember the taste of his seed on his tongue, and if he closes his eyes, the heat around his cock is Thorin, too.

He comes hard, burying his face in long dark hair that is missing braids, his body pinning a body that is too soft, but in his mind, the differences fade and it is enough. Even as he pulls out, his own seed spilling from Ida, he is already thinking of Thorin waiting for him at the pub.

For now, it is enough.


End file.
